


Happy as Happa

by Saxifactumterritum



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Adventure, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19437220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saxifactumterritum/pseuds/Saxifactumterritum
Summary: John saves... pretty much no one, but he's damned good at being captured all the same. set post-series, alien planet who aren't bad but are useless at being allies, John finds an unexpected friend who saves the dayNote: the mcshep isn't the primary focus





	Happy as Happa

**Author's Note:**

> Don't think there are any warnings, as ever hmu if you need me to check anything specific for you :) [on here in the comments, or on pillowfort and tumblr i am also saxifactumterritum] 
> 
> oh! WARNING: maybe for light torture. if there such a thing? No. Ok, for passing reference to torture of a secondary character enacted by primary character
> 
> I will add if I find any on subsequent read-throughs.

John’s lost track of planet designations, he thinks it was MK7-990 but it might have been MK9-907 or M88-45 or really any designation at all. He’s content to think of it as Happa, which is what the people near the gate called it. Happa has libraries, passed down through oral tradition, never written down, just told over and over, parent to child, generation after generation keeping knowledge in their heads. Their society was built around families, each family taking part of a discipline to learn and study and pass on, but not necessarily genetic families - kids could pick a discipline if they liked, could switch, and even grown ups could sometimes change if they wanted to. On Happa they were dedicated to preserving the past but also to lifelong study to push forwards. If you wanted to go and study the properties of the Puii tree, or to make artificial environments to encourage Haga bugs, or to spend your life building temporary models of old cities to work out specs, you could. So long as you did your bit bringing in the harvest and never shared your knowledge without receiving fair payment, you would be counted a good Happa citizen.

Happa had been a good ally, trading in-depth knowledge of Pegasus flora and fauna that was invaluable when half the flora and fauna wanted to kill you, taking for payment the Atlantis science department’s knowledge of anything and everything they could give up without being a security risk. They also had specs in their head for old Ancient outposts and cities that were long turned to dust on Happa. Those had been a little costlier, because the Happa had to draw out the designs and write out what they knew. They called it danger money. Those had cost John every bit of chocolate he could scrounge from around the city, six marines to be stationed on Happa until the inscribing was complete, ten hours of Rodney’s time as head science officer, and a renegotiation of their treaty with the Happa six months before a renewal was due.

It was clever, really. The Happa didn’t have spaceships, that would attract the Wraith, but they did know how to build spaceships and they traded that knowledge, among other things, so that they had access to other peoples’ spaceships. They didn’t have up to date farm equipment but come harvest time they had access to the most advanced farming equipment in Pegasus. They taught other people to make the things they needed, and then bartered that knowledge for access. From the outside Happa was one of the most under-developed societies they’d come across, but they had everything at their fingertips, once removed to keep their people safe. And then, the Happa had decided to trade with the wrong people, and given them weapons specs that were quickly used against the Happa, and out came that treaty with Atlantis, renegotiated to include a clause that had Atlantis sending out her military commander to fix the situation.

The fourth day John wakes and he’s not alone in his cell. He can still feel the ships’ engines and can still hear the guards chattering, can still hear someone further down the long corridor cursing the Happa for not negotiating for any of their people, and he has to laugh. Clever fuckers. Of course they’re not going to negotiate for John’s release, they don’t care about John. These are the same observations he's made the previous times he's woken, but this time there's something nearer, stirring, the air too thick to be empty. Someone else breathing.

“Sir,” comes a weary voice by John’s head. He knows that voice. It shouldn’t be here. “Don’t move, I don’t know what they gave you but last time you tried to move you screamed and passed out again.”

“Fainted,” John murmurs. He doesn’t remember the screaming and passing out. He does remember being given something to drink, finally, and drinking it because he hadn’t had anything in three days. “Proper medical term. You know that, Aidan.”

“Yes sir,” Ford says. John can feel his hand against his shoulder. “Don’t move.”

“You’re not here,” John breathes, letting his eyes fall closed.

Ford shifts beside him and pats his cheek until he opens his eyes again and looks up into the familiar face. It is Ford, and it must be him really here because he’s not as John remembers. Not quite. His eye looks shrunken, the skin around wrinkled like an old man, his eye back to looking like an eye but it’s all white and foggy. John stares.

“It’s been a while,” Ford says. “I haven’t had any enzyme in nearly a year.”

“Oh.”

He was supposed to save Ford. Supposed to get him back to Atlantis and help him get off the drugs, help him find himself. And here is Ford, stone cold sober. Looks like he saved himself while John wasn’t looking.

“I asked them not to hurt you, I didn’t realise we had you until yesterday when I was sent to give you that to drink,” Ford says.

“We?” John murmurs.

“For a month or so,” Ford says. “I’m travelling with them, I pay my way by working. They’re unscrupulous, weapons dealers, but they go places. Then I asked them not to hurt you and they decided if I cared so much I could be locked up with you.”

John wants to ask why Ford is out here with them and not on Atlantis, why he hasn’t come home. But he can’t, because the ship rolls to the side sharply and John moves and oh, there, there is the screaming. It feels like fire raging through him, twisting him up, cutting him from the inside out. He can’t breathe and can’t see and can’t hear. It must be better than last time though because he’s conscious. He can hear the guards yelling and weapons firing and he hopes it’s the Daedalus or Rodney or Ronon. Ronon would be good, he could carry John. No one appears, though, so when he can see again he figures he’s already moved so he might as well continue.

“Get me up,” he says.

Ford doesn’t argue, probably figuring the same things John just did. He hauls John to his feet and John’s limbs aren’t working, his head hurts in sharp stabbing pains and he bends, held up by Ford, and vomits.

“Nice, sir,” Ford says, and he sounds so much like he used to that John wants to shoot something. Instead he straightens himself out, biting off a scream, feeling like his bones are grating together and shattering apart all at once, and staggers to the cell door. “What next?”

“I’ve been…” he grits his teeth and his knees give, his head falling back, another twist of agony seering through him.

He digs in his pocket and pulls out the knife. Ronon taught him how to hide these, get better at hiding knives Ronon had said and here he is with a knife. Before they drugged him (why? Why drug him? Why make him hurt? Maybe they filmed it. Are there cameras here? No, John already checked) he had spent any moments he was left alone examining the locks. Now the guards are at the end of the corridor, guns up, shouting to each other whether they should go and help whatever is happening or stay and guard the prisoners. John uses his knife to undo the lock, a basic key-lock that is just there for show, or as a failsafe, or to make prisoners think they can escape. The doors are held with Ancient tech, except it’s not Ancient tech, it’s tech built to Happa specs of Ancient tech and luckily for John Atlantis bought the same locks. Not for their prisons, they aren’t stupid they know that Happa sells to anyone willing to pay and that these locks can be opened by anyone with the blueprint.

“Major Sheppard,” Ford says. “Whatever you’re doing, speed it up.”

John nods, doesn't bother to explain that he's _colonel_ now, and eases his hand between the bars. His wrists are thin, luckily, and he can just reach the panel on the other side, can just pry off the covering and just about reach to use his knife to dig out just the right crystal… it falls to the floor and breaks and he has a split second to jam the blade into the exact spot and yank his arm back before the doors open, the guards spin on them, and Ford takes off at a run. John sinks to his knees, the support holding him up gone. The pain’s dull now, thick and steady instead of sharp, and he recognises it. The Puii sap on Happa was used to make an alcoholic drink, mixed with Haga bug honey, and John’s had a hangover from it. It must do something else when not mixed with the honey, or maybe in greater quantities. The Happa mentioned something about concentration of the sap but Atlantis hadn’t bought the recipe so they hadn’t been given much information. John thinks, as he lies face down on the cold corridor, that it might be worth their time to buy some more information on Puii sap. His head’s turned so he can watch Ford barrel into the two guards and he sees the gun Ford kicks down the corridor to him, but he’s sluggish and he hurts and he just watches as it thwacks into his face.

“Sheppard!” Ford yells.

Fair enough. John drags himself up to sit, back against the cell door, bars digging into his back the discomfort grounding him, and uses his knee to prop up the gun. Ford goes down to a heavy hit and John shoots, getting the guard right between the eyes. The second guard is already down, a knife Ford magiced from somewhere in his throat. Ford jogs back and looks down at him.

“Don’t run,” John pleads.

“Nice shooting,” Ford says, bending to haul John to his feet. “Run? John, I’ve been doing everything I can for months to get to any planet at all that had an IDC for Atlantis. No one knows where the fucking city is. I’ll run like hell but this time I’m running toward you. Come on, which way?”

John takes a bleary look around and points in the opposite direction from the guards. He doesn’t protest his arm around Ford’s shoulders or the help Ford gives him, his breath is coming too fast and his vision’s blurring in and out. Ford carefully checks a corner and drops him, jerking back and then sprinting. John slides down the wall and peers around. Four men, all with guns, aimed at Ford’s new position across the hall. John waits for Ford to yell and make a break and then crawls around the corner, using the wall against his back and his knee again. Ford ducks and weaves and hits the deck and John shoots, shoots, shoots. He hits two targets and wings the third, Ford takes him out and the last guard with ease, confiscating more weapons for them. John swallows, his throat clicking dryly. He can feel other pains awakening as the drug leaves him, it’s wearing off surprisingly fast.

He has just enough time to think it’s nice to be able to breathe again when the ship tips with a thunderous crash and he’s thrown clean across the corridor, reeling, sprawled face down. His body locks up again and he bites down hard on his lip as something shatters. He’s not sure if it’s real or just seering pain and he’s not sure he cares. He tastes copper and bile. Next thing he knows he’s being dragged, stumbling, feet barely finding purchase, running. Ford’s running, John’s being dragged.

“Stop,” he gasps. Ford does, pressing them against a wall. John catches enough breath to push sweat off his face and get hold of Ford’s arm, orientate himself.

“Where are we going?” Ford asks.

“Dunno. You know this ship, how do we get off? I’m tired of this ride,” John says. Ford shrugs, which isn’t much help. John wants to know what’s happening out there, who’s shooting at them. If it’s his people, he wants to know why they’re trying to blow him up. He scowls. “Viewport, and a console.”

Ford nods and they’re off again, John stumbling at Ford’s side, crashing to his knees painfully once and once nearly dragging them both down. He wonders where his marines are. He was on Happa with two teams of marines. Are they down there or up here? He can’t really recall how he got up here. Not helpful. Ford drags him out of the endless grey corridor and into a grey room. It’s small, there’s a view screen and a computer. It’s not Ancient tech and it’s not Earth tech, it’s not Wraith, it’s just a jumble of wires, thick plastic boxes, metal covered in beeping and lights. It’s hot and something fitzes and sparks. John takes a look out of the window. He can’t see much, Happa far below them, two of the moons, a sliver of sun behind the planet. He can’t see the Daedalus. It can’t be ground-to-air fire, there’s no way there’s weapons that good. Maybe a jumper?

“Ford,” John says, beckoning him over. “Keep watch. Tell me if you see anything that looks like drones-fire.”

“Sir,” Ford says.

John takes another look at the mess of wiring and finds a tiny screen. He doesn’t know much about computers. Probably not enough to find anything out from here.

“You know anything about this tech?” he asks Ford.

“A bit,” Ford says.

“Swap.”

He leans by the window while Ford trawls through data looking for anything that’ll give them a clue. There’s another hit to the ship but he still can’t see anything and the rocking sends him to his knees, gasping for breath. He’s pretty sure his ribs are broken. When did that happen? He drags himself up again and sees it - the familiar gold arc coming right at him.

“Down! Down! Down!” he shouts, turning, running for Ford, throwing himself across him and holding on.

He tucks up his knees and tucks in his head and then there’s the thunder of a hit and the wall behind him buckles, the window cracking. He scrambles up, relying on the adrenaline to dull the pain, and he and Ford sprint for the door. Ford pushes him through first and slams his hand against the button to close the door, and John sprawls, sliding across the floor. They relax, panting, John’s breath coming in ragged gasps that he can’t control at all. He’s shaking.

“That was a drone,” he chokes out, wanting to vomit again. He lies as still as he can.

“They have no record of anyone on board,” Ford says. “Not even you, though, so I don’t know if that means anything. We need communications.”

"Where’s my stuff?” John rasps.

“No idea,” Ford says. He sounds exhausted.

John holds out an arm, waiting for Ford to haul him up. He can’t see again for a bit and they stagger along, directionless. They’re found by two guards running and John shoots but nothing happens. Stupid badly built guns jamming. Ford shoots one and John body-slams the other into a wall, stepping back for Ford to use his knife.

“I need my stuff,” John says, levelly. “Find out where it is, would you, Ford?”

He nods and John watches, refusing to look away, as Ford gets to work. As he goes, John nearly looks away but he ordered this, this is his responsibility and his act. He bears witness to it. Ford gets the information they need and more besides, the man babbling, sobbing. John kneels when Ford’s done and lifts the man’s head, holding his chin in a tight grip.

“Choose better friends next time,” he says, drags the man up and shoves him away. The man runs, not looking back.

“Should have killed him,” Ford says, distant. John nods. “I’m… glad… that you didn’t. Glad you didn’t ask me to.”

“Good,” John says. “Lets get my radio.”

It’s a ten minute run. John feels a stabbing pain in his side, his knee hurts every beat of his heart, his head pounds. Ford’s shoulder is strong, though, and when John falters, trips, staggers, Ford’s there dragging him onwards. They don’t meet many people, the hits to the ship coming fast now. The room where they put his things is unguarded and inside is only a woman, sat with his P90 across her knees, eyes hard and blazing. John trips as he jerks back and a stab of pain goes through his ankle. He falls, head hitting the deck, breath pushed out of him. Ford spins, his left hand snapping out, and his knife flies true to hit her throat before she can shoot, Ford hauls John up like a sack of potatoes and presses him to the wall and they wait as her grip tightens in death and a burst of gunfire shatters into the wall. Then there’s silence and they duck inside, Ford lowering John to the floor to sit, giving him the P90 to watch their backs while Ford rummages through the belongings tossed here.

“Anyone else, you think?” John asks.

“Yeah, three marines, judging by this stuff,” Ford says. “We’ll have to go back for them, right?”

“Right,” John says. “Radios?”

“Yeah, but they’re smashed,” Ford says, bringing him a handful of broken plastic, twisted wires.

“Thank god for Rodney McKay,” John mutters.

The third time someone smashed John’s radio and the tenth time someone broke Lorne’s Rodney set up a Mandatory Idiot Proof Radio Fixing Club. They all learnt how the radios are built, how they work, how to fix them. These aren’t beyond fixing, they’ve not been deliberately broken, whoever did this didn’t know what they were. They’re just pulled apart.

“Tac vest?” he asks.

Ford finds him one and John rummages, finding tape in a pocket. He also, to his surprise, finds tylenol. He takes it, remembering it making a dent in his Puii sap hangover and Jennifer assuring them it wouldn’t interact badly with the sap. Hopefully it won’t in this concentration either. Or without the honey. Or maybe this isn’t even Puii and he’ll die from bad drug interactions, whatever. He tapes together a cobble of radio bits and presses ‘on’, hoping for the best, putting it over his ear. It’s awkward and ugly and doesn’t quite work but he can hear a hiss and crackle of static and then Ronon’s voice.

“McKay, shut up, it’s not my fault, I’m telling you he was here!” Ronon bellows.

“Hey, guys,” John croaks.

“What do you mean he’s not- John?” Rodney’s voice comes high pitched and frantic.

“Where are you? Taking your time getting me out,” John says.

“Ok, ok, you’re wearing a radio, good, that’s a signal. Come on,” Rodney says.

John waits, P90 up, and Ford sits and waits beside him.

“We could meet them halfway,” Ford suggests.

“Drag me up, then,” John says, tired, aching.

Adrenaline only goes so far, though, and the painkillers have dulled the ache and throb of the Puii but that just means that it’s not masking the stabbing pain when he takes a step. He goes white and stares down at his ankle, then sags, his breath catching as his ribs protest, and his head spins. He’s on the floor before he knows it.

“Or we could wait,” Ford says.

“Sorry,” John says. “Not sure what happened there.”

“No worries,” Ford says.

Next through the door is one of the ship people, as a barrage of drones hits them and they’re sent sprawling. Ford’s up quickly and has the man on the ground. He hesitates. John just watches, lying on his side, and Ford ties the man up and and yanks the ropes tight, leaving him alive.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ford says, standing stiff, gun up.

John shrugs and apologises, eyes fluttering. He gasps, breath coming too sharp, and Ford comes to haul him into a sitting position. He snaps around and aims at the doorway and when Ronon comes barrelling in Ford’s hand tightens on the trigger. John yells in protest and tugs and Ford sprawls backwards, the shot hitting the ceiling.

“Why aren’t you answering your radio?” Rodney shrieks from behind Ronon’s shoulder. “Why are you shooting us?”

“Hi, Doctor McKay,” Ford says, lying on top of John. His radio crunches under Ronon’s foot, must've fallen out. “Sorry, Dex. Thought you were someone else.”

John groans as Ford gets off him and he hears Ronon’s gun powering down, then Ronon’s knelt by him, hand against his forehead.

“We’ve got to go,” Ronon says.

“Need a bit of help,” John admits, wrapping an arm around Ronon’s shoulders. He’s up on his feet before he has time to draw breath and the world spins, his ankle screaming at him again. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“Just carry him,” Rodney snaps. “Teyla’s got the other’s out, we have to go, now!”

“I’ll take the six,” Ford says.

“Hi,” Rodney says, voice going soft all of a sudden. “Oh. What are you doing here? Hello. Your eye.”

“Now, McKay, not next week,” Ford says.

Rodney yelps and John’s scooped up against Ronon’s chest. It’s a jolting, painful journey as Ronon pelts down the corridors after Rodney’s high pitched ongoing commentary.

“Why’re we getting shot at?” John slurs, when the ship bucks under another barrage of darts.

“The Happa are in those jumpers,” Rodney snarls. “They want us to get our people back, but they don’t care enough to wait until we’re done to try and blow this ship out of existence. Which would be easier to do if the Happa hadn’t given them enough information to build a shield!”

There’s a crash and Rodney shrieks and then returns fire. John’s let down to stand while Ronon shoots then scooped up again and they’re sprinting, Ford’s gun a sharp retort at their backs.

“Don’t leave him,” John says, struggling. “Ford! Aiden!”

“Stay still,” Ronon says.

“I’m here, sir,” Ford says, breathless, coming up at Ronon’s shoulder.

“Don’t. Don’t,” John says, gasping for breath again, trying to twist free to grip Ford to make him come with them.

“We’re here,” Rodney says. “Where - Teyla!”

John breathes out a sigh of relief as the jumper opens up and Ford runs in. He and Ronon follow and then Rodney, and John closes his eyes, a jolt sending his thoughts scattering away in all directions. He next becomes aware of space, of Teyla’s calm voice ordering shots fired, of Ford’s voice harsh and tired but not unhappy, directing them to a good target. John wants to watch his prison of the last four days explode, but he still can’t see clearly. He shifts and a hand presses warm against his chest.

“Stay down, Sheppard,” Ronon growls.

“Can I get some water?” John asks.

Ronon’s hand vanishes and then John’s being helped to sit up and drink, held in Ronon’s grip. There’s a thunder and crash of an explosion and then another and another.

“Nice,” Ronon says.

“Great shot,” Ford says.

“Yes, yes, you can all congratulate yourselves,” Rodney says, awfully close. John opens his eyes and stares right into Rodney’s, Rodney tapping his radio. “Jennifer, he’s awake but he’s doing that blurry thing he does when he’s concussed… no I don’t think he is… he doesn’t know where it hurts, according to … um… according… um… says that they gave him something. It masked things. Because it burnt him inside out, or something, I don’t know.”

“Puii,” John says.

“Um,” Rodney says, voice rising. “He’s being weird and incoherent I don’t know maybe he’s dying!”

“Puii,” John says again. “They gave me Puii sap, I think.”

“Oh,” Rodney says, and relays that to Jennifer. He starts laughing hysterically and then he’s giving John something to drink. John gasps and coughs as the brandy goes down, burning his throat, his ribs and back tearing with pain as he chokes. “Shh. Sorry. This is apparently a good counter-balance to Puii. Jennifer analysed stuff when we got drunk that time, she says this’ll work best out of anything in our kits here.”

“I found Ford,” John says, reaching for Rodney. He gasps as it jostles his shoulder and wrist. “Ow.”

“Stay still,” Ronon rumbles from behind him. John realises he’s held against Ronon’s chest. It’s warm and safe and familiar and he relaxes a little.

“Ford,” John says. “I found… did I?”

“Here, sir,” Ford says, crouching. “Hey, John.”

“Hey, Aiden,” John says, grinning. “You look good.”

“Liar. I’ll take it,” Aiden says, smiling back. It’s cracked and he looks too old and too tired and too worn down, but he does look good with it all anyway.

“It’s good. You’re here,” John says. “Saved me.”

“Yeah,” Aiden says, smile widening. “Little bit.”

“I think I’ll faint now, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Aiden says.

* * *

He wakes up in the infirmary. His mind’s clearer, which means that he’s clearer on what hurts, and it _hurts_. He stays still, not opening his eyes, waiting for it to hurt less. Tapping to his left comes into focus and he turns his head carefully that way, lets his eyes drift open. Rodney’s sat there with his computer as expected, eating a sandwich, muttering to himself. John hums, pleased, and lets his eyes fall closed again.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Rodney says, his computer snapping shut and a clatter as it’s put aside along with the plate. “How’s the pain? I can get you morphine if you want.”

“Good drugs,” John murmurs.

“Yeah, it’s only codeine now, probably why you woke up, but Jennifer says you can have the morphine again if you want it,” Rodney says. His hand closes around John’s and John sighs, holding on. “You ran on a broken ankle. And your elbow’s broken too, how did you manage that? Jesus.”

“Ribs?”

“Yeah, fractured though not broken. You have bruises like you wouldn’t believe all up your side. Keller says it’s going to hurt like hell where you’ve had those abdominal surgeries,” Rodney says.

“Mm,” John agrees. He’s thinking how much it hurts now already and if he wants to bear the negatives of morphine to just be ok for a bit. Just not hurt. “Thirsty.”

“You’re not you know,” Rodney says. “You’ve been on IVs, you’re perfectly hydrated. I’ve given you ice chips too. It’s all phsy-”

“Thirsty,” John insists, and gets an ice chip for his trouble. It feels good on his throat and he sighs again. “Aiden?”

“Yeah,” Rodney says, voice going soft with amazement. “That stubborn… He’s clean, he’s well, he’s here. He’s following Ronon around the city like a puppy, currently, talking a mile-a-minute catching up on everything. Ronon hates it. It’s great.”

“Hates him?” John asks, worried, shifting. God, that hurts.

“Not him, just the chattering,” Rodney says. “Stay still for heaven’s sake.”

“‘kay,” John gasps, breath coming wrong. He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the pain.

“Alright. Morphine, yes?”

John agrees. He’s not sure he spoke aloud but Rodney’s good. Soon a soft cushion insulates him from the pain and he breathes easier. It makes him nauseated and feels weird, he can’t quite grasp what’s going on, but Rodney’s there beside him, his hand warm and dry and calloused. He’s talking, John can’t make sense of it but it’s soothing. And then Ford’s there, too, Aiden’s voice and Rodney’s twisting together, and he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was kinda half a fic, there was supposed to be a second half where they go back to earth. I didn't write that bit though lol


End file.
